Earth Song (Medieval Song 3)

The heavens at that moment opened and cold rain flooded down. Thunder rumbled and the sky darkened to night. Dienwald, his tired men at his heels, ran into the great hall. It was silent as a tomb. There were clumps of women standing about, but at the sight of him they became mute. Then Gorkel came to him, his hideous face working. With anger? With betrayal?

“Ale!” Dienwald bellowed. “Margot, quickly!”

He ignored Gorkel for the moment, his thought on his son, now a prisoner of Sir Walter de Grasse, his greatest enemy, his only avowed enemy. His blood ran cold. Would Walter run Edmund through with his sword simply because the boy was of his flesh and blood? Dienwald closed his eyes against the roiling pain of it, against the helplessness he felt. And Philippa . . . Had she betrayed him? Had she taken Edmund riding with her on purpose so that Dienwald wouldn’t follow for fear his son would be killed?

He was tired, so tired that his mind went adrift with frantic chafing, with uncertainty. Philippa was gone . . . Edmund was gone, his only son . . . two of his men were dead . . .

Gorkel drew nearer to speak, but Dienwald said, “Nay, hold your peace, I would think.”

It was Crooky who said in the face of his master’s prohibition, “The mistress left her finery. Surely if she’d wanted to be rescued by her loathsome cousin, if somehow she’d managed to send him word, she would have taken the garments sent her by Lady Kassia, nay, she would have worn them to greet her savior.”

“Mayhap, mayhap not.”

“She knew you hate the man and that he hates you.”

“ ‘Tis true, curse the proud-minded wench.”

“She would not endanger Master Edmund.”

“Would she not, fool? Why not, I ask you. Edmund calls her maypole and witch. She held him by his ear and scrubbed him with soap. He howled and scratched and cursed her. Surely she can bear him no affection. Why not, I ask you again.”

“The mistress is a lady of steady nature. She has not a sour heart, master, nor did she allow herself to be vexed with Master Edmund. She laughed at his sulky humors and teased him and sewed him clothes, aye, and held him firm to bathe him, as a mother would. She would never seek to harm the boy.”

“I don’t understand women. Nor do you, so pretend not that you possess some great shrewdness about them. But I do know their blood sings with perversity. They become peevish and testy when they gain not what they want; they become treacherous when they believe a certain man to be the framer of their woes. They see only the ends they seek, and weigh not the means to achieve them. She could perceive Edmund as only a minor obstacle.”

“You are the one who sees blindly, master.”

“That is what Silken said. Oh, aye, I hear you. Get you gone, fool. Thank the heavens above that you did not sing your opinion to me. My head would have split open and my thoughts would have flowed into oblivion.”

“I have known it to happen, master.”

“Get out of my sight, fool!” Dienwald made a halfhearted effort to kick Crooky’s ribs, but the fool neatly rolled out of reach.

“What will you do, master?”

“I will sleep and think, and think yet more, until the morrow. Then we will ride to Crandall to fetch my son and the wench.”

“And if you find she deceived you?”

“I will beat her and tie her to my bed and berate her until she begs God’s forgiveness and mine. And then . . .”

“And if you find she deceived you not?”

“I shall . . . Get out of my sight, fool!”

Windsor Castle

“Dienwald de Fortenberry,” King Edward said, rubbing his jaw as he looked at his travel-stained chancellor. “I know of him, but he has never come to my court. Not that I have been much in evidence before I . . . But never mind that. I have been on England’s shores for nearly eight months now and yet de Fortenberry disdains to pay his homage to me. He did not attend my coronation, did he?”

“Nay, he did not. But then again, sire, why should he? If all your nobles—the minor barons included—had attended your coronation, why then London would have burst itself like a tunic holding in a fat man.”

The king waved that observation aside. “What of his reputation?”

“His reputation is that of knave, scoundrel, occasional rogue, and loyal friend.”

“Graelam wishes an occasional rogue and a scoundrel to be the king’s son-in-law?”

Robert Burnell, tired to his mud-encrusted boots, nodded. He’d returned from his travels but an hour before, and already the king in his endless energy wanted to wring him of all information. “Aye, sire. Lord Graelam wasn’t certain that you knew Dienwald, and so he recited to me this man’s shortcomings as well as his virtues. He claims Dienwald would never importune you for royal favors and that since he has no family, there are none to leech on your coffers. Lord Graelam and his lady call him friend, nay, they call him good friend. They say he would cease his outlaw ways were he the king’s son-in-law.”